In the late 80’s Teckla and I lived in Kansas City, a little off Red Bridge Road. My older brother Stanley came to live with use for about a year and a half. He was struggling with anxiety and some emotional distress. During this time, we hiked around most of the nearby nature preserves and trails.
Although unemployed and socially and physically awkward, Stanley had an encyclopedic knowledge of history and nature. Because he was ten years older, we had never been friends exactly, but we shared a love of nature. While living in Milton-Freewater, Oregon, Stanley occasionally took me on walks along the Walla Walla River. I still remember us seeing a black-chinned hummingbird and Lewis woodpecker along the river behind Roger’s cannery.
And while living in Myrtle Point, Stanley and I had hiked many trails. We had hiked to Hanging Rock and seen rock penstemon in bloom. We had seen the Lewisia blooming on the trail to Mount Bolivar. One of our last hikes was to the top of Iron Mountain where there is small grove of Brewer’s Spruce, a rare tree with long weeping branches. I owe to Stanley much of my knowledge of Oregon’s forests, flowers, wildlife, and all that lives in coastal dunes and tide pools.
At times Teckla and I have been overwhelmed by how much we have left behind in Oregon—the house, the good friends, the job, the yard, and all the beauty of the ocean, mountains, and rivers. At the Norway cemetery (outside Myrtle Point) are the stones of Stanley, Mom and Dad, and our son, Peter. So much of heart and so many of our family’s memories are in Oregon. Although we lived in Kansas years ago, we feel a little lost. Many places have changed, and some old friends have died. And much of our stuff, and therefore our life, is still in boxes.
Last week Teckla and I hiked some of the trail at Longview Lake where Stanley and I had hiked years ago. Along this trail, Stanley had taught me the songs of woodpeckers and how to identify the butterflies: red-spotted purples, clouded sulfurs, and glorious monarchs. In the spring Stanley showed where the bluebells bloomed near the first bridge. Once Stanley, who never moved quickly, darted off the trail and grabbed a three-foot black rat snake. He had gripped it in the middle of its body, so it was biting Stanley’s hand. With blood running down his hand, Stanley calmed the snake by rubbing its belly behind its jaws.
On this same trail Stanley and I saw a blue grosbeak—the first and only time we had seen this bird. Teckla and I saw no unusual birds on our hike, but we came upon a box turtle plodding across the trail. Its shell was scarred and cracked. It was perhaps old enough to have been seen by Stanley and me years ago.
Hiking this trail, I was surprised by Stanley’s gift. He had taught me to see the world around me, to pay attention. I looked at the ground to see what kinds of oak and hickory or butternut grew on each side of the trail. I looked at the gliding flight patterns of mockingbirds and the dance of blue azure butterflies.
Because of Stanley I am less alone in Kansas. The burr oaks and ironweed are old friends. I am delighted by the shagbark hickories and the checkered bark of persimmon trees. The explosion of sunflowers in September brings me joy.
Stanley taught me that attention to nature is worship. Like God after creation, we look carefully at all that He has made, and say, “It is good, it is very good.” Stanley sang hymns beautifully, but I think his love and attention to creation was how he loved God best.
One of Stanley’s favorite hymns was “This is My Father’s World.” Teckla and I sang this hymn together this morning. The second verse says, “This is my Father’s world, the birds their carols raise/ the morning light, the lily white declare their Maker’s praise/This is my Father’s world, He shines in all that ‘s fair/In the rustling grass I hear Him pass, He speaks to me everywhere.” Because of Stanley, I am better at hearing God everywhere—even in Kansas.
I miss Oregon and how the roar of the ocean made my heart soar. However, I am grateful that Stanley taught me hear God pass in the prairie’s flowers and grass. I am thankful that in all our loss, my heart can dance with the monarchs which are now nectaring furiously before the winter.
Stanley once explained to me that sunflowers are heliotropic, turning their faces toward the sun throughout the day. Now that I live in Kansas, the sunflower state, I pray that Teckla and I will also be heliotropic—turning our faces toward the Sun of Righteousness who rises with healing in its wings.
